


MJN

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, MJN Air Is A Family, Mentions of Suicide, Post Yverdon, Sort of happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Martin took the job with Swiss Air. . . Douglas has been flying short, one-pilot trips, but they aren't enough: MJN is finally going under and Carolyn is having to sell GERTI to pay off their debts, and I know there's nothing you can do but is there anything you can do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	MJN

Dropping into his swivel chair with a sigh, Douglas clicked open his emails. He was always sure of at least one email these days -- sent at 9.16 PM from Switzerland. Martin was clearly a creature of habit.

_From: Martin Crieff (martin.crieff@swiss.air) _To: Douglas Richardson (skygodrichardson@mjn.air) _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: _Hi Douglas, _Today I saw four yellow cars. Tell Arthur that if he and Carolyn ever visit Zurich, he will be pleasantly surprised. _Yes, I’m – you know – getting by. It’s very busy here. The flight deck professionalism is astounding. _How is MJN doing, by the way? You never said. Has Carolyn found another pilot yet? Give my love to GERTI. _I miss you all. (Heaven help me.) _Best wishes, _Martin.__________

Martin hardly ever talked about his work these days, Douglas noticed. He’d have thought that his once-captain would be eager to show off about his shiny new position in a major airline. Presumably it wasn’t as interesting as flying for MJN. Although admittedly less potentially deadly. And better paid. And still a job.

Douglas stared at the glare of the screen, pondering. He couldn’t tell Martin that MJN was finally done. Martin already blamed himself for leaving. Really, the boy had a remarkable amount of sentiment for the airdot, considering the relative levels of teasing and money he’d received in his time with them. He’d be sure to make MJN going under be his fault. And, Douglas realised, he wanted Martin to be happy at his new job – really happy. God knew the man had tried hard enough to fly. He deserved to enjoy it.

Douglas flexed his fingers. It was time to exercise his diplomatic genius and change the subject.

_From: Magical Me (skygodrichardson@mjn.air) _To: Sir (martin.crieff@swiss.air) _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: _Hello, Captain, _of course we’re all missing you. Did Herc tell you, he’s been rejected by Carolyn for the fourth time? Well, not rejected per se. The woman keeps stalling. Much like GERTI in that respect. _I can’t help but notice, Captain, you’ve been avoiding the topic of your work. Tact is all very well, but surely you’re wishing to brag about your speedboat? _Incidentally, we’re scheduled to be flying to Zug on Friday. How about coming down to meet us? Same country, after all. You could bring Theresa. _-Douglas x________

Douglas hit the “send” button and sank back into the creaky leather, pressing his hands over his face.

*

By the time Douglas had had a shower, Martin had replied.

_Douglas – _For such a good liar, you can be remarkably obvious at times. I emailed Arthur – he says that MJN’s debts have finally taken over and you’re going to have to sell GERTI. He doesn’t believe it, by the way – says you’ll think of something clever and everything will be fine. _As a matter of fact, I don’t believe it either. GERTI’s been through too much to end this way. _I’m not avoiding talking about work! Why would I? Work is fine. The weather in Switzerland makes for good flying conditions. All the trips are fine. There’s not that much to say, really, when flights aren’t always near-death experiences. It’s fine. _I’m sure MJN will sort itself out. Really. Thanks for everything, Douglas. Everything will be fine. _Yours, _Martin. _P.S. I don’t think I’ll make it to Zug. Sorry.________

Damn and blast. Trust Arthur to let Martin know. It was obvious that Martin meant to try and do something about it – Martin was the worst liar Douglas had ever met. Well, second worst. Time for a forceful reply.

_Martin – _ON NO ACCOUNT are you to leave your job for us. There isn’t anything you can do. In this case, there isn’t even anything I can do. But we all knew it was coming. Don’t worry about us, Captain. _Douglas.___

Douglas waited by his laptop for the rest of the evening. Martin didn’t reply.

*

Douglas spent his last week as an employed pilot watching episode upon episode of Doctor Who and refreshing his inbox periodically. Martin had still not replied. Douglas was getting quite frustrated. Of course Martin wouldn’t listen to him – he was too stupidly stubborn. Several times, Douglas tried phoning, but got no answer.

*

On Friday, Douglas pulled into the airfield parking lot to note with surprise a racing green monstrosity parked in his usual spot. What would Herc be doing here? He’d been in Switzerland the last Douglas had heard.

The airfield was deserted. GERTI stood forlornly under a leaden sky. “Martin sends his love,” Douglas told her.

There was an odd sound emanating from the base room as he approached- the murmur of voices, punctuated with the odd constricted, shuddering noise. Douglas approached the door, unease and anxiety beginning to writhe in his gut like a tapeworm.

The door opened without a squeak for the first time in all Douglas’ years with MJN. Douglas dismissed the niggling of his more superstitious side telling him that it was an ill omen. Why was Herc here?

Arthur was sitting in a corner, sobbing nearly silently, his mouth open. As Douglas entered, Arthur turned a blotchy, anguished face towards him, and made another constricted gulping sound. Carolyn was leaning against the rickety desk, gripping it, her knuckles white, her face pinched and vulnerable. Herc was hovering behind her, staring grimly at the wall and flanked by a whiskery man in a dark blue suit.

Douglas started into the room, overcome by fear, terrified to ask in case of the answer. “Wha –” The words were difficult to choke out past his panic. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Herc steered him out of the base room and regarded him with an odd expression. It might have been concern. “Douglas–”

“I don’t suppose Carolyn’s finally accepted you?” blurted Douglas. He didn’t want to hear. He was scared, scared beyond belief. He took out his phone, pretending nonchalance, and started to check his emails.

Herc looked at him again. The note in his eyes was definitely pity. “Douglas. You need to listen. It’s not going to be easy.”

Douglas opened his inbox with shaking fingers, feigning deafness to the words that made him into someone so weak.

“Martin is dead.”

And there it was, the fear, the pain, the grief, all landing on Douglas with the force of a bomb; the pain Douglas had been trying to avoid, too scared to face up to. “No,” he heard himself saying, his voice seeming to act of its own accord, echoing dimly past the ringing in his ears.

Herc’s voice kept going, pouring smoothly around him. “The official statement says it was a workplace accident – apparently he fell down the stairs. Nobody found him for a whole day. It seems he didn’t associate with any of the other pilots. The cleaners reported the body, and his copilot said “Oh, Marvin? The little weird ginger one. Those stairs are awful. Shame,” and left the subject.”

Douglas didn’t want to listen. Grief and rage and guilt were bubbling like acid inside him. Why hadn’t he seen; why hadn’t anyone stopped it? “His name is _Martin_ , he hissed. His words echoed back to him again. Was. It would have to be past tense now. Douglas dropped to his hands and knees, his head still echoing remotely, and threw up.

Something cool pressed into his hand, and he looked up. A plastic cup of water. It was blurry. Douglas dashed a hand across his eyes. The cup came into focus.

“Herc? Comfort Arthur, please?” Carolyn sounded helpless, quiet. Her voice shook. “Douglas. That solicitor man wants to talk to us.”

Numbly, Douglas pushed himself back to his feet and followed Carolyn into the base room. Arthur reached out and hugged Douglas, fiercely and awkwardly, and Douglas hung on.

The solicitor cleared his throat, and Douglas released Arthur, who followed Herc out of the base room. Douglas stared at the man. He was a squat individual; his froglike eyes gazed about the room with an air of doleful condescension. Douglas hated everything about him, from the smug buttons on his neat suit to the gray whiskers coating his apologetic face.

“What do you want?” said Carolyn wearily. A sodden handkerchief, monogrammed H.S., fluttered from her grasp to the floor. Douglas thought he heard a sob as she bent to pick it up, but she resumed facing the solicitor defiantly dry-eyed.

“My name is Davies.” The solicitor’s voice crawled into Douglas’ ears like a dead thing, oozing sham-condolences. “I’m here on behalf of the late Martin Crieff.”

Douglas inadvertently drew his arms across his chest, convinced that the pain those two syllables caused him had to be physical. _The late._ His Captain had hated being late. Now that he’d got there, Douglas hated it too.

“There are two matters to attend to here,” the solicitor – Davies – wormed on. “Firstly. Mr Crieff had life insurance savings of a considerable amount. He has transferred these savings from his family to be given to MJN Air.”

Carolyn gave a watery gasp. “Oh, the stupid boy. Surely that’s not legal?”

“It’s perfectly legal. Mr Crieff was always very particular about legality. He had it changed quite recently.”

A new pain and fear stabbed at Douglas like broken glass. He’d thought he couldn’t feel any worse. Clearly he’d been wrong. Martin’s last email kept running through his mind – his odd confidence that everything would be fine. _I don’t think I’ll make it to Zug _. Had he known he’d fall? Douglas put his head in his hands, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to shut out the images of Martin falling, Martin looking down a staircase, Martin hesitating, whispering ‘I have control’, throwing himself out, his arms in a ghastly parody of plane wings, his neck at grotesque angles, bone punching though his freckled skin, his eyes empty. The images wouldn’t stop. Martin’s unhappy emails, avoiding work, seeking companionship with Douglas, the only companionship he had – God, why hadn’t Douglas SEEN?__

“We can’t take it,” said Carolyn, dabbing fiercely at her eyes. “Obviously it should go to his family.”

“I’m afraid you have to take it,” Davies clarified. “It was very specific. All of it has to be claimed by MJN.”

Douglas imagined Martin, desperately lonely and guilty for leaving MJN, determined to help it in any way he could. And there was a way out, for him and for them – a way that he, and not Douglas, could fix everything. Douglas had breezed through three divorces. It was only now that his heart was breaking.

“Mr Crieff also made some behests for you in his will. These include some for your son, Mrs Knapp-Shappey – if you could call him back, I will read through that now; the items can be collected from the family of the deceased in your own time.”

Anticipation, and some more guilt, were piled onto the bomb site of Douglas’ feelings. Arthur was led in – he had stopped crying, but he was blotchy and his breathing came in shuddering gasps. Davies shuffled his papers and began to read, putting on a sombre voice painfully different from Martin’s.

“‘The last will and testament of Martin Hamish Crieff. I do hereby confirm that…’”

The legal preamble droned on. Douglas’ heart gave another clench – he hadn’t known that Martin had a middle name. Presumably Martin hadn’t wanted to give him any more teasing ammunition.

“‘…To Wendy, Simon and Catlin Crieff: all of my possessions, except those detailed below. Firstly, to Mr Arthur Shappey Esquire, I leave my van, so that he will not have to rent his car from Douglas at ridiculous prices any more. (Sorry, Douglas.) Also to Arthur Shappey, I leave my toy polar bear, in the hopes that he will find it brilliant now that I am no longer able to.’”

Arthur had started to cry again at the word “Esquire,” and reached for his mother’s hand. “I will, Skip!” Douglas found himself perilously near tears. He blinked furiously. Time enough for crying later. It wouldn’t do to upset Arthur further.

“‘Secondly, to Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, I leave any savings from my paid job, to help my unpaid one. I also leave my dad’s signet ring, in the hopes that she will not feed it to any geese.’”

Carolyn gripped Arthur’s hand fiercely. Several tears slid down her cheek to meet her grief-distorted smile.

“‘To First Officer Douglas Richardson, I leave my Captain’s epaulets, free of resentment, in case he should ever need to pretend to be the Captain. (As if enough people don’t think he’s the Captain anyway.) I also leave him my hat, ornamented with the standard amount of gold braid. And my box set of Sherlock, although I realise that he will always prefer Doctor Who. Herewith I also leave my wishes that he continue to win all word games.’”

It was no good. Douglas managed to get out of the room before sobbing. He allowed himself sixty seconds of gasping sobs, and then straightened up, wiping his eyes determinedly.

Douglas was about to re-enter the portacabin when his phone rang. For one wild moment, his heart leapt. The screen showed an unrecognised number. He answered brusquely, angry at himself for being so stupid. “ _Yes_?”

“Douglas?” The voice was crackly and unsteady. “It’s Theresa. From Liechtenstein. Martin gave me your number, he said that I could call you if I wanted to talk.”

“And what if I _don’t_ want to talk, Your Highness?” said Douglas roughly. It was stupid to let his grief get the better of him; stupid to look for someone to blame. The knowledge of the stupidity of his behaviour did nothing to stop it. After all, she’d at least been nearby.

“You will want to,” Theresa said. “This is not why Martin intended I should call – for a cosy chat, condolences, promises of financial aid if ever you need it. No. I am calling because Maxi is old enough to appoint his own advisors and eat his vegetables.”

Douglas’ curiosity stirred dully. Deciding that mustering a sarcastic comment would take too much effort, he waited in silence for Theresa to continue.

“This means that I am at liberty to do as I please. You are understanding so far? And what I please is this. I please to come and work for MJN as a pilot. For free.” Theresa’s voice was defiant, daring Douglas to argue.

“I appreciate the thought, Your Highness. But you do realise you actually have to be qualified in order to fly a plane?” Douglas was more startled than he let on. Clearly Martin and Theresa had had more in common than he’d known about.

“I am qualified. I have been training in my spare time on Martin’s flight simulator. He did not know. And I have passed all the tests and I will come and fly for you. Martin may have helped with your debts but you will never earn unless you can do two-pilot flights.”

“You’ll have to talk to Carolyn,” said Douglas. MJN could continue. Douglas supposed he should be happy. But he didn’t want to replace Martin. He didn’t want another Captain. Not now. Not ever.

Theresa must have sensed his reluctance. Her voice dropped. “It is not for you that I do this. Do not think it! Not for you, or your friends, or your company. It is for Martin’s sake that I shall fly for you.” Her voice cracked. “Martin wanted to save you. So I shall help him do so.”

*

They cancelled their flight to Zug, electing instead to take Herc back to Zurich, then drop by Vaduz to visit Theresa and organise when she could start with MJN. Douglas was not thrilled. Theresa seemed to be a confident flyer and capable woman, smart at solving problems and excellent at impressing people. Everything Martin hadn’t been. Douglas did not want to fly with her.

At the minute, Douglas didn’t want to fly at all. He wanted to go home to bed and pull his duvet over his head. He wanted to get a grip on himself, not go breaking down all over the place. He wanted to shut his eyes and open them to find everything back as it was before Martin left.

He settled for a cup of coffee.

*

A light, misty rain was settling in across the airfield. Douglas left his mug on the side and filed the flight plan. Halfway out the door he realised that Martin didn’t like to leave dishes lying around, went back inside and washed out his mug.

He dawdled purposefully on the walk around. Resting his head on GERTI’s side, he fought down the hollow anguish that rose in his throat, patted the plane awkwardly and entered the flight deck.

“Ready to go, Douglas? Have you done the walk around?”

Herc was sitting in the Captain’s seat, poised to fly, looking for all the world as if he thought he belonged there. Hatred and loss exploded behind Douglas’ eyes.

His knuckles connected with Herc’s nose with a satisfying sound. He ignored the pain in his hand and looked directly into Herc’s eyes. “ _You’re – not – my – Captain_ ,” he hissed viciously. Turning on his heel before the guilt could catch up with him, Douglas stalked off to the galley.

*

Eventually, he couldn’t lick any more salt into his wounds. Arthur brought him tea and he said thank you. Carolyn told him to stop being lazy, though without any real force. Herc apologised to him. He played Yellow Car with Arthur on the way to the palace. Theresa’s eyes were red, but she signed the contract Carolyn proffered with a smile and flew G-ERTI skilfully back to Fitton.

Wendy and Catlin were very kind when the MJN crew went to visit. Arthur and Wendy made tea together, and Catlin showed Douglas photographs of Martin as a little boy, running around, arms outstretched joyfully. Simon didn’t make an appearance until five minutes before they were leaving, but when he did he shook Douglas’ hand and thanked him for being a good friend to Martin.

Douglas thought he might die.

*

It was a clear day, verging on summer, a few little fluffy clouds decorating the subtracted sky. Good flying conditions. The black marble was cool to Douglas’ touch.

They’d let the family take care of things, putting in only a perfunctory appearance at the funeral, deciding instead to visit and hold their own commemoration. Arthur had found some dandelions by the roadside, and was clutching a lemon.

Carolyn stepped forward, clearing her throat roughly. “Alright. Martin. I don’t often say this, particularly not to you, so here we are. Thank you. I mean it! You saved MJN, really saved us. I owe you a greater debt that I can say. And whilst I’d rather owe it to you than to any of MJN’s former, vicious, creditors, I am sorry that I am unable to repay you. And I am sorry that you left MJN, and I’m even sorry for not paying you a proper wage. Because you deserved one.” Carolyn’s voice quivered. “Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you were an excellent pilot. And I will miss you. There.”

Dandelions covered Martin’s grave now. The lemon nestled behind the headstone, in plain sight, as per the rules. Arthur looked scared, and Carolyn squeezed his hand.

“I don’t know what to do now!” came Arthur’s voice, watery and helpless. “It’s not the same without you, Skip. And I’ll have to learn lots of different things, like how to make coffee for Theresa. Oh! That’s right, Skip – Theresa’s flying for us now. So it’s okay and you saved the day. But I don’t want you to be dead.” Tears were spilling from Arthur’s eyes. “I really, really don’t. I’ll miss you, Skip. You were bri –” The word was cut off in a gulping sob. “Brill –”

Carolyn, crying too, put her arms around Arthur. “There, dear heart.”

Douglas didn’t know what to say. A last cabin address. How was he supposed to do that – to say something in words that would express the gulf of pain and loss inside him, or the affection for his Captain, or the overwhelming grief? It was like some perverse flight deck game. Martin had rendered Douglas speechless, and won.

He settled for, “Thank you, Martin.” That wasn’t good enough. “You were the best pilot I’ve ever flown with. I said once that you always went the extra mile. And I was right. Not just in being teased, in everything. And it was a privilege for me to fly with you as my Captain.” He couldn’t say anything else, so he settled for holding the top of the gravestone, gripping the silky surface and blinking until the inscription was legible.

It was simple. No dates, no religion, no pretences. Nothing other than a commemoration of who now lay in the ground, ashes and earth and stone. _Captain Martin Crieff_.

Douglas released the headstone and nodded to Carolyn, and the MJN crew turned to go. Douglas didn’t think that he would ever be rid of the hollow ache inside him. But maybe in time it would lift. Although none of them had voiced it, they were all dimly aware of the immensity of sacrifice. Martin had given his life for MJN. And there were flights to go on, word games to play, customers to harass. They would hang Martin’s hat in the flight deck, Douglas decided. It wouldn’t be the same. They all knew that. But it would go on. Douglas looked up, into the clear blue summer overhead. “Come on, then.” He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Let’s fly some plane.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my usual style at all and I'm ignoring any other fics. I just wanted to write something sad. (So please let me know whether it's awful or not. . . )  
> Disclaimer: I'm not John Finnemore, or the BBCeeeee.  
> Incidentally, if this was an actual episode I had it all planned out that the end credits would be read by the other crew members rather than Benedict. Which I couldn't fit into the story.  
> Much love to anyone who reads, comments or in any way likes anything I write. -Ro :)


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